Possession
by Jess J
Summary: Timeline fic. It should have been his name she cried out, should have been his face she saw, his lips she kissed. But Andre Marek had left her mind the moment Oliver kissed her. Please r&r!
1. Possession

Author's note: This is what happens when you have a hyperactive muse, a very strong obsession with Michael Sheen, and a love of angst. I am actually all for Andre/Claire, I really am. But, this came to me one night, and I had to write it. Hope anyone who reads it, enjoys it. Please review.

Disclaimer: I do not own Oliver, Claire, or Andre Marek, they belong to Michael Crichton and Paramount pictures. I make no claim on them. Please don't sue me. Savvy?

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nothing stands between us here  
and I won't be denied  
  
and I would be the one  
to hold you down  
kiss you so hard  
I'll take your breath away  
and after, I'd wipe away the tears  
just close your eyes... 

****

POSSESSION

It should have been his name, coming from her lips in that last scream of pleasure, her body trembling from the force of the most delicious experience she'd ever had. It should have been his name she cried out, should have been his face she saw, his lips she kissed.

But Andre Marek had left her mind the moment Oliver had kissed her.

As the pleasure subsided, leaving her body tired and almost numb, she cried. Tears of guilt, shame, loss, hurt. She did not struggle as he wiped them away, his voice soothing now, his fingers soft. The same fingers that had slapped her less than even ten hours ago. 

"Do not cry, Lady," he whispered, his voice strangely gentle, comforting. He kissed her tear stained cheeks, his tongue licking at the remains of her shame. He had taken her, taken something precious, something that should have been Andre's.

Yet, he had not truly taken it, she had given it. Of her own free, accursed will, she had given it. Why, she could not say now, but minutes ago, she had been unable to deny him anything. Had he asked her to kill herself, she might have even done that. She cursed him silently, damning him for making her so submissive with just a kiss.

Her eyes burned now, burned from the weeping she was slowly ceasing, his words of comfort, though empty, fulfilling their purpose.

"Come now, we can't have you looking like this when we go outside to watch the battle, can we?" he asked her softly. "Hush, hush, lovely Claire, strong and brave as a queen," he whispered. He kissed her again, his lips soft. The kiss was not unlike the one Andre had given her, soft and gentle yet passionate. It had not like this before with the English lord.

Claire tried to block it all out, tried to forget what had happened. She tried to focus on the kiss Oliver was giving her now, so much like Andre's. She tried to think of Andre Marek, her rescuer, noble and kind and probably dead. But she could not help remembering what had happened.

Oliver had been wild, rough, demanding until they were finished. Now he was soft, kind, so gentle, it was as though he were trying to comfort her for what he had done. But before, after the English soldiers had dragged her to his room here in La Roque, before he had been fierce and demanding.

Claire had struggled against him at first, she had tried to slap him again as soon as the guards had left. That should have been her first clue of what he was planning, but she was to blinded by rage and worry for her brother, her people, and Andre to think that Oliver might actually want her for himself before the battle. She had struggled when he'd grabbed her arm before it could reach his cheek, she had struggled when he'd pulled her to him, grabbing her other arm and then pinning her on the bed. Then she realized his plans, and had struggled even more fiercely, now screaming at him to let her go.

But then, then he had kissed her. The English bastard had kissed her, his mouth hot and damaging, making her warm inside, making her give in. She had slowly stopped struggling with him, instead struggling with herself to keep from responding in kind. But her body had gone against her will, her slowly weakening will.

She had heard his chuckle, his infuriating, smug, triumphant chuckle, had felt him smirk against her skin as his mouth traveled to her neck. She had almost been able to close herself of to him then, almost been able to struggle against him again. But then he had kissed her again, his tongue entering into her mouth as soon as she part her lips in surprise.

His hands had gone under her shirt then, long fingers kneading her flesh tauntingly, roughly yet so wonderfully exquisite, it made her moan and arch her back as his hands lifted up her shirt. He tore the shirt over her shoulders and arms, her head until her upper body was bared to his scalding gaze, the baggy shirt lying on the floor, forgotten. 

She had let him take it off, helped him practically, had pushed herself up enough for it to come off. She had simply laid there, letting him look at her nude torso and chest, let his hands roam over her breasts. She had let him kiss her again, let his tongue snake inside to touch hers.

She had returned the kiss, had slowly let her own tongue dart into his mouth. She had wrapped her arms around him, pulling him down on top of her, pressing his still clothed torso against her nude one. She had let her fingers pull at his clothing, had let herself moan as his warrior hands rubbed her side, his fingers moving to again massage her breasts.

He was still rough, still demanding, yet she was beginning to return the passion. He let her undress him, her fingernails raking down his chest once she had rid him of his shirt. He had groaned in pleasure, making her repeat the motion. He had let her pull him down to her again, this time her bare chest meeting skin and coarse hair instead of clothing.

With bruising force he had held her to him, just as thankful for her skin against his. She would have bruises tomorrow, should she live. She had scratched at him, her fingers digging into his back while his stroked her abdomen as he lifted up enough to rid them both of their leftover clothing.

Claire stared Oliver in the eye, determined she would not look down. She tried to focus on his eyes, his cocky, triumphant eyes. His smirk, the same as the look in his eyes as he laid down on top of her again, and she gasped as she felt it. Panic and struggle almost came back to her, but again, he stopped it with a kiss, searing, blinding.

"Brace yourself, Lady," he had whispered into her ear, his teeth moving to nibbling on the skin right below it after he spoke.

She knew what that meant. She had known what he was about to do, but she had kept still, had let him in without a fight. She had let him take, had given him all her innocence left, something precious. 

He had entered her quickly, kissing her as he did, muffling her cry at the brief, sharp pain. For several moments, he had simply lie there, inside her, still. He had watched her, his hands holding hers, fingers intertwining.

"Still hurt?" he had asked, watching her with a blank expression then. He had not shown what could be called kindness, perhaps mercy would be better. But as soon as she shook her head, informing him she was fine, he had begun to move, thrusting into her. He had let go of her hands and trailed up her arms to her breasts and abdomen, stroking her skin as he thrust into her fiercely.

Claire had moaned, whimpered, gasped as he touched her, as he repeatedly entered her body. She had wrapped her legs around him, her arms, clutching him to her tightly as she felt pleasure and warmth building in her stomach.

"Say my name," he had instructed her breathlessly, his voice husky. "Say my name."

She had shaken her head, trying to put up one last fight, but as his hands had moved down to her hips, holding her in place, holding her to him, she had cried out, moaned his name. She wanted to curse him when she felt him smirk against her neck as he elicited his name from her, but she had only been able to moan again.

Oliver had started to groan as well then, his own pleasure obviously building as well. His movements became faster, harder, deeper. As if he had become desperate for release. Abruptly, he had leaned down and kissed her feverishly, his hands digging into her flesh, and his position had changed slightly.

Claire had moaned loudly, moving her mouth to his shoulder, biting down to keep from screaming as it came, rapture, blinding and searing, more so than any kiss, any touch his body had brought yet. She'd heard him groan again, louder than before and he had stilled. Her stomach felt hot and she realized he had come as well, sending his seed into her.

"Oliver," she had finally screamed, unable to hold it back any longer. And now here she lie, spent and sore under his burning flesh, his voice and fingers soothing and comforting now.

"Why?" she cried softly, meeting his eyes for the first time since they had finished. "Why?"

The English lord kissed her forehead. "Because I wanted you, Lady," he told her. "I wanted you, and still do. But I am here for France, for victory, therefore I will settle for France without you, unless your brother cares for you more than his country."

"He will not surrender," she stated bravely. "He will not surrender even for me."

Oliver stared down at her. "I know. Which is why I took you here, now." He rose, lifting himself up, leaving her body cold and empty. "Get dressed, the battle begins within a half hour."

Claire watched as Oliver dressed himself before handing her own garments back to her. She took them, shakily standing up and dressing.

She thought of Andre, wondering if he was dead. She would never see him again, not even if her somehow was alive. She would die tonight. But she would die knowing it should have been Andre she had given herself to, not the English bastard that would not take her country.

It should have been Andre. But it hadn't been.


	2. Haunted

Disclaimer: I do not own these character. They belong to Michael Crighton and Paramount pictures, etc. I'm only borrowing them for a bit. No harm done, really. Please do not sue me. Savvy?

Author's note: Yes, I realize for an Andre/Claire shipper, I am very cruel to them. But who knows, perhaps I will write more, and get Andre in there, and let him win over Oliver at last. The ending of this is left very open, and it is up to the reader to decide if it's dream, or if it really happened. Up to you. For now at least. Please review!

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I know you're still there  
  
watching me wanting me  
I can feel you pull me down  
fearing you loving you  
I won't let you pull me down

watching me wanting me  
I can feel you pull me down  
saving me raping me watching me

****

HAUNTED

His hands were warm against her skin, stroking her stomach in an almost gentle way. But he was still too rough to be gentle, she knew that. His lips were demanding, as always, forcing her to respond, making her focus only on him, only on they bodies joined together. His eyes were triumphant yet dark, like gray storm clouds. His voice, hard and husky, yet still it caressed her practically as he groaned from the pleasure that was building within them.

She moaned herself, clutching him with her limb, holding him to her despite everything. She whimpered and moaned and dug her nails into his back as she came, as he brought her to the blissful end of their dance. She felt him shudder and release as well, his loud groan sending her further into the fire, and she screamed his name.

"Oliver!"

***

Claire jerked up in her bed, panting and sweating and cold. And empty. She could feel her heart pounding and she thought for a moment it would burst out of her chest it was beating to hard. She shivered and pulled her thin covers closer. Brushing her matted hair away from her face, she found her body was covered in a thin layer of sweat, despite how cold she was now.

But she had been experiencing this so often now, it barely made an impact. Every night she had that dream, every night since the eve of the French's victory over England. Over Oliver. Every night since he had taken her, claimed her innocence, virginity as his. He had died with that victory at least.

She lie back down, sighing and clutching her body, hugging herself as she tried to block out the dream. She thought of Andre, of how it should have been him that had taken her first, how it should be him she dreamt of now, how he would be crushed and outraged if he ever found out.

She really shouldn't have such dreams in the first place, but after her, encounter with Oliver that evening, she decided any woman would be hard pressed to avoid such thoughts or dreams.

But now, not even five days from her wedding to Andre, she was dreaming of another man, of making love to him. It had been over a month now, a month since his, defeat. His death.

Her brother had noticed how she reacted whenever Oliver's name was mentioned, more than Andre. Andre had always thought she was simply uneasy hearing about the man that almost hanged her. But her brother, Arnaut, he knew her better. He knew there was more to it. But he mercifully never pushed the subject.

Perhaps she should simply confide to him what had happened, tell him what troubled her so. But she wanted so hard to forget, to pretend it didn't happen, that she never gave in to that desire. She wanted to be free of him, free of the longing.

She loved Andre, she knew that. But she belonged to Oliver.

"No!" she hissed, shaking her head fiercely. "He's dead, he's gone, and he will not have any hold on my from the grave," she declared softly. "He's dead."

"Am I?"

Claire gasped. She knew that voice, whispering from the other side of the room. She knew that accent, tainting it, the haughty, self-assured tone. But it was impossible. She looked around the dark room, but saw not a soul.

"You're losing your mind," she told herself, lying back down, clutching the covers closer to her. She curled up into a fetal position and closed her eyes. All she wanted was a night's peace, sleep without dreams, memories without him. "He's dead." she knew she must have stated those words thousands of times each night, assuring herself she was free. Or perhaps, no. She loved Andre. She did, she knew she did.

But for Oliver, she did not know how she felt. Lust, perhaps. But not love. She did not, could not love the English lord.

"Still as defiant as ever, Lady."

Claire's eyes shot open. She felt strong arms wrap around her, gripping her tightly and she struggled, trying to break free from his grasp.

"Hush, hush, Lady Claire," came his voice, Oliver's. "You will cause yourself harm if you keep this up." He turned her over onto her back, and she looked up at the familiar face of the man that had plagued her since her had taken her.

"Oliver," she whispered, dumbfounded. "But, how? You're dead, Arnaut killed you," she stated, but he merely sneered.

"Your brother does a horrible job of killing, Lady," he taunted. "Besides, perhaps I am only another dream, coming to haunt you yet again, although from the moans and whimpers you cried in your sleep, I think I did a very pleasurable haunt." His fingers stroked her cheek, then trailed down her neck, between her breasts, down to her stomach before she grabbed his wrist.

"Don't." She tried to sound commanding, but she knew how pleading her tone came out. She watched him smile almost kindly at her, moving his hand back up to her cheek, cupping her face.

"Claire, lovely, strong Claire," he whispered, leaning down so that his lips brushed her forehead as he spoke. "You know you want this, as much as I do." He moved his mouth down to her own slightly parted lips, smiling as her breathing quickened. "As much as I do."

"I do not want this," Claire stated, her eyes meeting his stoically. "I never wanted this. This is nothing more than rape, and you know it," she told him.

Oliver's eyes darkened, his expression blank. He moved his hand to the back of her neck, pulling her up to him roughly. "Hardly rape, my dear, hardly rape. But if you insist, I can accommodate you," he practically spat at her, holding her roughly, tightly, possessively. "I could make you hurt for weeks, so afraid to be touched ever again that you would shrink away from your beloved Scot. I could create such a fear of men, they would think you mad."

Claire stared up at him, silent and terrified. She knew he spoke true, she knew he could do that and might have done so to others, or had his men do such things. But she knew he wouldn't, even if he tried. Because she would give in, she would want him.

Oliver sighed and let go of her, causing her to fall back onto the mattress. "But I will not rape you, Claire," he told her, something akin to regret in his tone. "I will not rape you." He stared down at her for several minutes, neither of them speaking. "Would you have me leave you to your beloved Scotsman? Do you think he can make you cry out like that, make you feel that way?"

Claire opened her mouth to reply, angered at how he spoke of Andre, sweet, kind, brave Andre, but Oliver silenced her, his mouth claiming hers. She moaned, melting against him. She tried to push him away, but she wanted this, he had been right, she wanted him.

"Still want me to leave?" Oliver asked smugly.

Claire looked up at him, trying to figure out how he was here, alive, with her. She had seen Arnaut kill him while she struggled to get free of her bonds, she had seen his corpse on the ground as they left, their backs to La Roque as it burned to the ground.

"You already left me," she replied. "You're dead."

"Am I?" he again asked her. "If I am, this is nothing but a dream and there are no consequences of letting me make love to you. But if it I'm not, then what does that mean?" He sat up, pulling her up as well. "Either way, you want me, you know it, and I know it." He kissed her, his hands roaming down her back, making her shudder in pleasure. "And either way, I obviously want you as well," he told her, pulling her onto his lap.

Claire gasped. Yes, he wanted her, that was certain. She watched silently, transfixed as he slowly, ever so slowly moved her nightgown off her shoulder. She closed her eyes, sighing as he kissed her shoulder. 

His fingers gently pulled the gown up then, slowly slipping it over her until she sat there in front of him, bare and exposed to his heated stare. He leaned over and kissed her softly, his hand smoothing her hair back as he gently laid her down, resting on top of her. He bore most of is weight with his arms, now on either side of her as they kissed.

She determined this had to be a dream, for Oliver was not so gentle. He was dead, and she was dreaming again.

And in her dreams, she would give in, always. In her dreams, she let Oliver win, she cried out his name. And come morning, she would return to Andre yet again, to the one she truly loved.

***

Sunlight blinded Claire as she opened her eyes, yawning. She suddenly sat up, remembering last night. Looking around, she tried to see if there was any proof it had been real. She prayed it had all been a dream, it had to have been a dream.

A dream. Nothing more. Oliver was dead. He was dead and his body burned along with all the English soldiers killed that night as the flames overtook the fortress of La Roque. Oliver de Vannes was dead, never to return.

She saw nothing, no trace that anyone had come to her room last night. She slipped out of bed, and then she realized something. She was nude. Looking down on the floor, she saw her nightgown, lying in a crumpled pile far from the bed.

"No," she whispered. "It can't, he's dead." She hurriedly walked over and picked it up. "I must have done this," she told herself. "I did it." She put the gown back on, shivering, but not from the cool, morning air any more.

"Andre, forgive me," she cried softly. "I wish I could have you forgiveness." But he could never know, she would not let him know. She refused to let him know, she refused to believe Oliver was alive. It was impossible. It was too cruel.

"Andre will not know. At least, not yet."


End file.
